Do you remember the J. Crew catalogs from the mid-90s? Those beautifully curated images of picture-perfect families in elegantly adorned homes, all smiles in front of a grand colonial? The meticulously placed garland, the romantic kissing ball hanging above, and the sideboard boasting a handmade cornucopia of glittery fruits? I longed to replicate that ideal during the holidays. So, as an adult, I attempted to transform my home into a J. Crew-inspired haven.
Spoiler alert: it was a disaster. At the age of 32, I’ve finally come to terms with the fact that crafting is not my forte. Pinterest terrifies me, and I often feel like magazines exist solely to mock my efforts. After much contemplation, I’ve decided I have no more energy to waste on my lackluster crafting skills. Here are my reasons why I’m not made for crafting:
- Glitter—often referred to as the herpes of the crafting world—is a relentless menace.
- Craft stores like Hobby Lobby and Michael’s are my personal hell. The aisles are cramped, dried flowers trigger allergies, and the queues at checkout feel like an eternity. How is it possible that four bottles of acrylic paint, some cardboard, and a pack of glitter stickers cost me over $120? I’ve tried pre-gaming with a cocktail before venturing out, but that only makes me more likely to loudly tell the lady blocking the wooden stamps to get out of my way.
- Hot glue guns? A hard pass. The thought alone gives me anxiety.
- Ever had that moment? You see a stunning wreath and think, “I can totally make that!” Fast forward through four shopping trips and a $312 expense, and you’ll find me crying, covered in shellac and Spanish moss, wondering why I ever thought this was a good idea. My husband, who never wanted a wreath in the first place, gets the brunt of my frustration.
- Martha Stewart. I can’t stand her beaming face from the cover of every magazine, instructing me on how to create that same wreath. I know she’s practically a goddess, but I just can’t bring myself to like her.
- When my child wants to “help,” it never ends well. Suddenly, tiny glass beads are all over the carpet, the dog is vacuuming them up, and my little one is dropping hot glue on their foot. It’s chaos.
- As for spray paint, I lack the patience to cover everything within a five-mile radius in plastic. That’s why my balcony floor is now a vibrant shade of hot pink.
This realization has led me to abandon my aspirations of a sparkling, ornate J. Crew-style home. My wonderful husband has gently reminded me that my time might be better spent on activities I genuinely enjoy—ones that don’t turn our dining room into a disaster zone or require a trip to the vet for our curious dog. And you know what? I’m absolutely fine with that, even if Martha would disapprove.
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In conclusion, I’ve embraced my crafting shortcomings and have chosen to focus on what truly matters.